Riven swaggered across the room to stand over the halfling, a sneer on his face. Jak continued to stare, unflinching.
"Jak Fleet," Riven said, with sarcastic courtesy. "Well met indeed. I'd hoped to see you under ... different circumstances."
Riven held out his hand, a disingenuous offer of peace, and Jak stared at it contemptuously.
"You better put that back where it belongs before it gets lighter by a few fingers."
Riven gave a cold, hard smile and teased, "Yap, yap, little dog. Do you ever bite? I haven't forgotten anything, you know."
Jak stood up, hand on his short sword hilt, chest puffed out, and said, "Neither have I. You still wearing a scar in that kidney?"
Riven's intake of breath was as sharp as a razor. He glared down at Jak, hands on the hilts of his own blades.
"You pull them," Jak said, "you'd better be ready to see it through."
The halfling's lower lip noticeably twitched, and his green eyes blazed.
Riven held Jak's gaze for a moment longer, chuckled, and backed off a step.
"He's got backbone, Cale, and no denying that," Riven said. "Maybe I'll see it sometime."
Still chuckling, he turned and took a seat on the other cot.
Jak followed him with his eyes, sitting only after Riven did.
That was that, Cale thought, and made sure not to smile. Well done, little man.
Jak glanced at Cale, his cheeks red under his bushy sideburns, and said, "These people after you must be something for you to partner up with him." He jerked a small thumb at Riven, who only sneered. "What is it they want?"
Cale took the half-sphere from his pack, unwrapped the burlap, and showed it to the halfling. Jak hopped to his feet and walked over to Cale.
"This?" the halfling asked as he took the half-sphere in his hands, eyeing the tiny, colored gemstones set within the quartz. "Gems are valuable, but other than that, it doesn't look like much. I'd probably bypass it on a second story job." He pulled out his holy symbol, a jeweled pendant he had lifted from somewhere, and intoned a prayer to Brandobaris, the halfling god of rogues and tricksters. "It's not magical either. You sure this is what they want?"
"I'm sure," Cale said.
Riven, seated on the cot, leaned back against the wall and guffawed. He was sure too.
Only then did the implications of what the halfling had said hit Cale.
"Wait, you detect no magic at all?"
"No. Should I?" While he spoke, Jak removed an ivory bowled pipe from one of his belt pouches and fished around in another for his tin of pipeweed.
"I don't know."
At Stormweather, Tamlin had detected protective spells on the sphere. Could it be losing its power? More alarming, could it be masking its power somehow?
"Jak," said Cale, "we need to know what this thing is... or was. You know anyone who can help? A Harper maybe?"
Jak had once belonged to the Harpers, a broad-reaching organization that sought to do "good," whatever that meant.
Jak filled his pipe, and struck it with a tindertwig. He blew out a smoke ring in Riven's direction and nodded.
"I know someone," Jak said, "but he's no Harper. He's ... well, you'll see. He is discreet, though, in his way, and I've used him before. It'll cost us."
"I've got the coin," Cale said.
"I've got coin too," Riven said, surprising them both.
"Well enough," Jak said, with a raised eyebrow directed at Cale.
After that, Cale filled the halfling in on the details of the past night, including the use of illusions, the half-drow's and Almor's telepathic abilities, and the way splitting the sphere had seemed to affect Cale's sword.
Riven leaned forward on the cot and listened intently throughout. It was the first time Cale had mentioned the change in his enchanted sword and the attackers' use of telepathy. Jak took it all in. When Cale finished, the halfling blew out another smoke ring.
"A mental mage?" he asked. "That might explain the 'illusion.' You might have only thought they looked like the guards."
Cale hadn't considered that. Mental mages—psionicists—were so rare that he'd never encountered one before. He had no idea what one might be capable of doing.
"Possible," Cale said. "I don't know. They didn't manage their weapons like mages, though, mental or otherwise."
"How would we fight psionicists?" Jak asked the ceiling, thoughtful.
"Same way as anything, little man," Cale said, and put his hand on his sword hilt.
"Damned right," added Riven. He picked his teeth with his little finger. "I knew a psionicist once. Little different than an ordinary wizard. Nothing special."
Cale thought Riven's words sounded forced but did not comment.
"I hope not," Jak said. He looked to Cale. "You think they've kept the guard—Ren—alive?"
Cale shook his head. He didn't know, but he sure hoped so. He felt responsible for Ren being captured. He'd told the young man it would all work out. It hadn't.
"He's alive," Riven said. "Else why take him? He's a contingency. If they'd gotten away with the whole sphere, he'd be dead already. They didn't, though, so he's not. Yet. But that doesn't mean they won't have a go at us anyway."
Neither Jak nor Cale took issue with Riven's reasoning. It made sense.
"Now what?" Jak asked the room.
Cale answered, "Now you take us to your contact, and we find out what this is."
"You have a ward on our half?" Jak asked Cale. "To prevent magical tracking?"
"I did. Not anymore. You?"
"Of course," Jak said, and gave him a wink. The halfling again took out his holy symbol and incanted a prayer, all the while holding his pipe in one corner of his mouth. "That ought to keep it for a while."
Cale smiled. He should have known the halfling would have a warding spell available. A good thief could always shield his swag.
CHAPTER 8
CONFRONTATION
Vraggen had been attempting to track the other half of the globe all morning without success. He knew that neither it nor Cale was still in Stormweather Towers. Yet he had heard nothing from Elura, who was supposed to be watching the mansion. His greatest concern was that Cale had simply fled the city with the globe. The fact that his spells had been unable to locate the half-globe heightened that concern. Either Cale had warded it, Beshaba had afflicted Vraggen with exceeding bad luck,or Cale was gone. If the last, tracking him would be difficult and time consuming. Vraggen didn't have that much time. The Fane of Shadows would appear soon. He could sense it.
Once again, he closed his eyes, cast his spell and focused his consciousness. In his mind's eye, he pictured the other half of the globe. He spell diffused his perception, extended it a few hundred paces in all directions around him, through walls, seeking, seeking...
There. Praise Cyric! He sensed the globe!
His glee almost broke his concentration. He could not stop himself from smiling.
He narrowed the location. It was not far. Right, then maybe a block or two up—
"No!"
He lost contact with the globe. Countermagic sheared off his spell-enhanced perception as cleanly as a vorpal blade through flesh. Cale must have enspelled the other half of the globe. But Vraggen knew enough. He let his concentration slip.
Around him, the sound of the street returned and filled his ears: the clop of horse hooves, the clatter of carriages, the shouts of vendors. He opened his eyes.
"What is it?" Azriim asked.
The half-drow stood beside him, resplendent in a fine-fitting green cloak, polished boots, and tailored shirt. Immediately behind him stood hulking Dolgan and quiet Serrin. Dolgan wore his axes and ring mail. Serrin's leather armor peeked out from under his cloak, and his hand sat on the hilt of his falchion.